


Rebound Guy

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-07 01:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15898125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: Because he knows he’s convenient, that’s all. In the right place at the right time. What’s the word? A rebound guy.





	1. Before

“Okay,” Ruth is saying. “Just, one more time, I promise. Let’s try it with—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you still going?”

Four pairs of eyes turn to him. She makes an indignant sort of squeak. “ _Yes_ , we’re still going. We want this to be perfect before the network comes to see.”

“Really? We?” He takes in the exhausted faces of Carmen, Arthie and Yolanda. “Or is this just  _you_  and they’re all too nice to say?” Yolanda’s grimace to the floor is tell-tale sign he’s near the mark. “Go and get some rest,” he orders.  

“Ruth?” Carmen says, loyal to the end.

I—yes—” she manages. “Go… Go and get some sleep. We can start again fresh tomorrow.”

“Eight-thirty?” Arthie checks, another olive branch.

“Sure.”  

“Okay then.” Sympathetic smiles all round. “Night, Ruth.”  

“G’night.”

“Night,” she returns weakly.

“You should go get some sleep too,” he says, turning to leave after his wrestlers.

“What the  _hell,_ Sam?”

“What? Oh, come on. It’s almost eleven.”

“You told me this segment was mine to direct, and then you come in here and undermine me!”

“This isn’t me undermining you,” he says, shaking his head. “This is me making sure you don’t  _break_  someone.”

“Oh, right, right,” she scoffs. “Because you care  _so_  much about everyone’s welfare in the ring.”

“Just what the fuck is  _that_  supposed to mean?”

“What do you think? Stop pretending this is anything other than you being a petty, immature, selfish—” Her voice cracks before she can finish describing him, possibly for the best.

“Oh, spare me the self-righteous bullshit. You stop pretending this is anything other than burying yourself in work to get over that idiot—”

“Ohhh, you are  _unbelievable_!Just – just, get out.”

He huffs. “You’re the one who—”

“Get out!” she shouts, temper finally breaking. “Just leave already, please!”

“I’m going, I’m going!” he yells back, slamming the door as he does so. “Jesus  _Christ_ …”

 

* * *

 

He’s smoking, pacing about his room in the casino, still filthily angry hours later. Continuing his row with her in the privacy of his own head; muttering the things he could have said, should have said, around his cigarette.

_Knock-knock._

“Urgh.” He stubs out the cigarette and stomps over to the door, more than ready to take out this rage on whoever has decided to call uninvited so late—

“Oh. It’s you. What do you want? You want to shout at me some more?”

“Honestly?” she says, “Yes. Do you want me to do it here in the corridor, or can I come in?”

“Be my fucking guest,” he says, opening his door wider so she can storm inside. “I mean, there’s nothing better for me to be doing this evening than—”

She kisses him so hard it hurts; cutting him off.

“What— _fuck_ —” he manages as the door clicks shut, but it’s like fighting gravity. He’s wanted this, wanted her for so long, that he finds he is kissing her back just as greedily. In the end she breaks them apart. Her hands are balled in his shirt like she might throw him to the ground, and she’s scowling up at him, breathless. 

He’s used to women being angry with him, but generally not as the first move. “Ruth, what the fuck is this?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” she returns. Kissing him again rather than face another question; tugging his shirt out of his pants—

He takes her hands in his, holding them against his chest to stop her. “Ruth.”

“I thought you wanted this,” she gasps, still seeking his mouth. “I thought you wanted… me.”

And it’s almost enough to break the thin sliver of resolve he’s holding onto, hearing her breathe something like that. The kind of thing he’s imagined to find a shameful, solitary orgasm under the shower.

“You know I do,” he manages. “I just— Oh,  _fuck_.” She grinds her hips against his growing erection and he gives up. Stops pretending to be a better man than he really is, releasing her hands to go where they will. His last shred of self-preservation gone as he pulls her tight against him.

Because he knows he’s  _convenient_ , that’s all. In the right place at the right time while she’s looking to fuck Russell out of her system. What’s the word?   
  
A rebound guy.

And he’s hopelessly in love with her. When she comes to her senses and tells him this was just a stupid mistake, it’s going to destroy him. Well, he’s going to destroy himself he supposes; aided and abetted by the drugs, violence and alcohol in easy supply here in Sin City. But  _God_  - maybe this is  _worth_  dying for - her hands under his shirt pressing into skin; the scent of her as he buries his face in her neck.

She stills, suddenly stiff in his arms. He lifts his head. “Not good?”

“No, you just…” She looks awkward trying to find the words, but he knows the answer already.

“I remind you of someone else?” he says tartly.

She sighs, taking a step back. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t a good idea...”

“Oh,  _now_  you listen.”

“What does  _that_  mean?”

“Are you kidding me?” He nods down towards his cock. “Some people would call this casual cruelty.”

“Oh.” She touches a hand to him, making him groan.

“Please, make up your mind.”

“What do  _you_  want?”

He swallows hard, but what’s the point in lying? “You. You idiot.”

She nods, and shoves him towards the bed. Things still feel more like a wrestling match than a romance, perched on the edge of his mattress as she stares down at him; hands on hips. “Are you always so charming in these situations?”  

“Well, I’m still not sure if you’re here to fight or fuck.”

“If there’s anyone who could do both at the same time,” she says, rolling her eyes, “it’s you.” She pulls her sweater over her head, as casually as she would in the gym locker room. “What?” Nose wrinkling in confusion at what he assumes is his expression of  _all-my-Christmases-are-coming-at-once._  “Sam, you see me like this basically all the time.”

“No,” he says, voice thick. “I don’t.” He takes her hands, pulling her to stand between his legs. Tracing the line of her body upwards, from hip to rib, kissing her stomach softly. She gets the idea, sitting slowly into his lap. His mouth and hands move up as she slides down, over a bra that doesn’t  _quite_  cover everything. Her breath hitches as his thumbs drag across her nipples, stiffening under soft lace.

She’s spent months fucking a pornographic cameraman, a dark and corrosively jealous voice whispers. There’s likely to be little  _new_  he can show her in bed. So, he sticks with what he knows he does well; telling her a story as they slowly undress. A different narrative to the fast and functional release she came in to pitch. This instead is the story of Ruth, all the things she likes. Even the things –  _especially_  the things – she’s forgotten in the rhythm of a relationship.

It’s not a selfless endeavour. If this is all he’s ever going to have, he wants to know every inch of her.

And he’s doing okay, taking direction from her given in soft gasps and moans, her eyes falling closed. Doing  _great_ , he thinks, until she suddenly grabs hold of his wrist, stopping his hand working between them, and opens her eyes.

“Now.”    

“Yeah,” he hears himself saying, “alright.”

He guides himself inside, eyes still locked on hers. Doesn’t take long to find the sweet spot, her legs locking somewhere round his knees. Angling her hips to let him thrust deeper; pace quickening.

“Oh. Sam,” she says, suddenly undone; and he comes with such ferocity his vision strobes.


	2. After

He’s pretty sure she didn’t plan to stay, but somehow, in the sweat-slick hazy aftermath, she seems to have fallen asleep. His arm is numb underneath her but he doesn’t _dare_ move, afraid of waking her and her common sense.

He watches her sleep instead. Her steady breathing, the softness of her face as she dreams. Maybe it’s a little creepy; he doesn’t care. There’s an emotion he can’t name sitting like a stone just under his ribs. Like he loves her, he supposes; like he wants to do anything for her, and change, and be a better man and—

And all that sappy bullshit.

He’s a fool if he thinks this time, with her, it might just be possible. She’ll ask for the ridiculous, or he’ll find change too difficult; and since when do nice guys come first at anything, anyway? He’s been there and done that and all he has are scars and burned bridges; a failed marriage and a shitty credit record to show for it. Besides, he’s not a good person. He doesn’t deserve a fairy-tale ending.

So, he watches her. Pins-and-needles in his arm, certain only of one thing: there’s no way he’s going to _sleep_ —

He opens his eyes to find he’s alone in his bed. It’s still dark; the red digits of the alarm-clock on his bedside table declare the time to be 03:23. And he can smell cigarette smoke.

She hasn’t gone. He turns over to find her standing at the window, looking out over the Strip from on high. Wearing his shirt and not a lot else, smoking pensively. Well, he realises as he watches, she’s letting a cigarette burn to nothing in her fingers. She doesn’t actually _like_ smoking, but it’s the dramatic thing to be doing in this situation, so of course she’s playing the part.

“You alright?” he says, eventually.

She flinches. “Jesus… I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. Help yourself to a cigarette by the way. That’s fine.”

She rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”   

“Mm.” He’s dying for one himself now. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m just…” She sighs, closing her eyes briefly. “What do we do now?”

“About what?”

She looks incredulous. “About this. About _us_.”

“Oh.” He shrugs. “What do you want do about it?”

She gapes at him, clearly not anticipating what to him seemed the obvious question. “I don’t know. I just, this is what I _always_ do. I was feeling sorry for myself and I knew you were—and so I—and now we’re…” She stutters to a halt. Maybe the sick, heart-sinking feeling her words freight is playing out on his face. “I’m sorry.”

It might be a new record, reaching the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ stage before she’s even left in the morning. “Look,” he scowls, “I knew what you came here to do, alright? I get it. I just… don’t understand why you’re still here.”

“You want me to leave?” Those big blue eyes of hers, suddenly glassy with tears of hurt. 

“I don’t know, Ruth,” he snaps. “Maybe.” He can’t fight with her from a prone position, so he throws off the covers; drags his jeans back on to at least cover his ass. Finds his cigarettes on the bureau, fumbling one from the packet and lighting up, buying his temper some time. “I guess I don’t know what I want either.”

Unfamiliar uncomfortable silence stretches between them.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she says with feeling.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Will you _stop_? I know you’re fucking sorry.”

She twists her hands. “I know, it’s just, I—”

“Look.” He blows out smoke. “It doesn’t have to… It doesn’t have to change anything.”

“Really?”

“We can just pretend it never happened. If, y’know, that’s what you want.” He’s about to drop ash on the carpet, and she has the ashtray on the window ledge. “Can I?”

She nods, pushing the glass bowl down the ledge away from her, so they’re not having to stand too close as he finishes the cigarette. He pretends he’s looking out over the city, but really he’s watching her reflection in the glass. Lips pursed as she thinks over his suggestion.

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” he says eventually, to the dark of space outside.

“Then what—?”

“Jesus _Christ_ Ruth.” He meets her eyes at last, swallowing hard. “Do I really have to say it?”

He stretches out his hand instead, across the distance between them. Like he’s offering to dance with her again. She bites her lip. Tentatively, shaking fingers curl around his.

“I’m scared." He believes her.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, “me too.”

“I mean, we work together and you’re… so _mercurial_ and…”

“I know. I know.”

“And I don’t want to lose GLOW. God, this is the _best_ thing that’s ever happened to me. You know?”

“I do.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He stubs out his cigarette with his free hand. “Look, I don’t know how this works either, alright? I just know that I… like you. More than I like anyone else. And I don’t want that to go away.” A flicker of a smile crosses her face at that. “What?”

“Nothing! Just, you like me.”

He laughs at her sudden shyness. “Yeah, I like you.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Is it? Is it really?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I like you, too.”

It takes him a moment to unstick his suddenly dry mouth. “Maybe we don’t have to work everything out right now, you know? We can just... be discreet.”

She looks at her feet. “Right.”

“ _Now_ what?”

“No, it’s just…Normally when I sleep with an actress they keep quiet for their own sake.”

He grits his teeth, recognising his own words thrown back at him. “Fine. You want me to announce it to everyone at tomorrow’s production meeting instead?”

“ _God_ , no.”

“So, you know, we just… keep it between us for now. See what happens. Alright?”  

“Alright.”

They watch the twinkling lights of the city together for a while.

“Why’d you come and stand in the window to do all this?” 

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Just felt… appropriate somehow. You know. Dramatic. Don’t – don’t laugh at me—”

He kisses her instead. It comes as a surprise; she jumps slightly as his lips meet hers, but she relaxes into him after a moment.

“I like you in my shirt, by the way.”

“I like you… out of it,” she manages, running her hands over his chest.

His fingers trail up her thigh as they kiss; a sharp intake of breath against his mouth as his thumb brushes against her. She doesn’t say anything more, but she fumbles at the button of his jeans; and then she's tugging at the fabric until his erection springs free—

He hoists her up, stumbling a little to press her back against the wall, and fucks her there and then all over again.


	3. Discreet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not intended to be a multi-chapter fic, I just have no self-control, apparently.

The thing about discreet is: he’s not actually very good at it.

_He tried to take her back to bed. Or at least he meant to, but she came to her senses once her toes touched the carpet again, while he was still gasping and shaking._

_“I should go.”_

_“No. Stay—”_

_“I have to be downstairs for eight tomorrow for a day of rehearsals and I… didn’t even bring a toothbrush.”_

_If it was anyone other than Ruth, he’d have called that out as a flimsy excuse to leave. But she’s fastidious, bordering on fucking prim. “Alright, I— Are you sure? I mean…”_

_“Sam.” A kiss, soft; a smile he couldn’t help but mirror. “I’ll see you later.”_

_“Yeah. Okay.” His own goodbye kiss rougher, more desperate. “Later...”_

It’s now lunchtime. He’s made it this far without seeing her. This is later, right?

He’s dragging on another cigarette he doesn’t even remember lighting, nervous. Which is fucking stupid — he has lunch with her all the time. Trading script edits and story ideas, sarcastic barbs and sandwiches. Why is he so tied up in knots about going to find her _now_?

 _Because they’ll know_ , says the little voice. Like he’s been dipped in scarlet ink; marked. He’ll walk into the rehearsal room and fourteen pairs of eyes will call him out. And he can’t bear their _judgement_ —

Fuck it. She can always come and find him. _I’ll see you later_ , she said. There was no clear expectation as to _where_.

* * *

He’s so absorbed in typing he doesn’t hear her come into the lighting-box-slash-make-shift-production-office until it’s too late.

“Hey.”

His stomach lurches when he looks up and realises it’s her. “Oh. Hey.”

She’s smiling, coming to perch on the corner of his desk like she always does. “Are you avoiding everyone?”

“Uh, no. Just lost track of… What time is it, anyway?”

“Seven. You wanna go get some dinner?”

“Sure.” Normally they’d go eat at one of the casino bars. He raises his eyebrows. “How’d you feel about room service?” She winces, and too late he remembers why the suggestion is a raw nerve for her. “I’m kidding,” he lies, “I was kidding. I—fuck.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, no.  You’re right. I don’t want this to be…” But he’s at a loss as to how to put things without digging himself a deeper hole. _I don’t want this to be like those other times I slept with an actress_ doesn’t exactly have a great ring to it. “… seedy.”

She snorts a laugh. “I mean, this is Vegas.”

“Right, right. Well, where do you want to eat?”

She shrugs. “The usual is fine by me.”

He narrows his eyes, not sure if this is some sort of coded message of deeper meaning about what’s going on between them now or not. “The usual,” he repeats. Her bemused expression gives him no answer. “Alright.”  

* * *

“Oh, that was good,” she declares, sitting back in her chair and struggling to hide a yawn. “Ugh. I’m going to have to go to bed. Tired. For some reason.” She smiles at him, teasing; about as close to flirting as Ruth ever gets.  

“Really?” Tone sarcastic, like the asshole he is. “ _I_ feel fine.”

“Well, you… got a lie in.”

“Mm, that’s what you get for scheduling eight am rehearsals.”

“It’s good to start early.”

“Is it?”

“Just because _you_ never schedule anything before ten am if you can help it...”

“Damn right.” He puts down his napkin. “You can’t go to bed yet, though.”

“Why not?”

“Because the _Sands_ fireworks display is in ten minutes.”

“Sam…”

“What? I don’t want to go watch by myself, and I doubt you can sleep through that many tonnes of high explosive. Come on.”

She gives him a long-suffering sort of look but scrapes back her chair nonetheless.

The sidewalks are crowded out on the Strip. Not unusual for nine o’clock in the evening, but there’s more of a purpose and directionality than usual; more cotton-candy and peanuts on sale.

“Makes a nice change from the late-night sex-shows,” she says grimly, when he points this out.

He rolls his eyes, but keeps his foot out of his mouth by shutting it for a change.

The crowds are such that movement is grinding to a halt. He shakes his head. “Not going to see much from here.”

“We could get up on the bridge?”

It’s not a bad idea. He leads the way, awkwardly pushing against the flow of people now. Salmon against the stream. Others have the same plan, but he manages to sharp-elbow his way to the concrete wall of one of the footbridges over the Strip. Predictably, Ruth is now stuck behind a couple of gawking tourists ignoring her polite attempts to move past.

“Hey,” he says, reaching across them to grab her arm. “Will you let her through, please?” The words are polite enough, but his tone suggests impoliteness as a definite future option, possibly preferable. The guy sticks out his chest a little, but decides Sam isn’t worth the fight and lets her pass.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says flatly, unimpressed by his chivalry.

“Well, you don’t have to be such a fucking doormat all the time, either,” he returns, planting himself behind her before anyone else can shove through. “You’ve got just as much right to be here as—”

Their proto-argument is mercifully cut short by the rattling boom of the first rocket firing. Even he finds himself _oo-ing_ and _ah-ing_ along with the crowd as the volley cracks open against the night sky; showers of gold and green sparks. The second round goes up, higher than the first. Ruth leans back slightly to see, brushing against him. He’s not sure she even notices in the press of the crowd, but he’s suddenly lost all ability to focus on fireworks.

Another rocket screams across the sky, another tourist jostles past, and he puts his arms around her. He half expects her to stiffen, resist. Instead she tucks in against him and they watch the rest of the display entwined.

“I’m not sure this is _discreet_ , by the way,” she says, when the explosions stop. 

“I’m not sure I give a fuck.”

She laughs at that, amused almost against her will.  Neither of them is quite willing to move yet, even as the crowds start to thin; their cover disintegrating.  

“You still feeling… sleepy?” he asks, against her ear.

“…No,” she admits.

“Come up to mine,” he says, heart thumping painfully. “And, you know, bring your toothbrush this time.”

She takes a deep breath, weighing up her options, and he just _knows_ she’s going to shoot him down—

“Okay,” she says.    


	4. Opposites Day

He lights his second cigarette, shaking his head; convinced she isn’t going to come after all—

A knock. Tentative.

Fuck it, it’s probably housekeeping.

He wrenches open the door and of course it’s Ruth after all. She takes a step back in the face of his scowl. “Hey. I can— I mean, if it’s not a good time—”

“It’s fine. I was just…” But he doesn’t have an end to that sentence. Gestures wordlessly for her to come in instead. 

She gives him an uneasy smile, hands in her pockets, coming to stand in the middle of his room. Somehow things are _more_ awkward than when she came here to hate-fuck him. He should probably kiss her, but the frisson of the bridge has dissipated in the last half hour and he’s not at all sure how to bring it back.

“You want a drink?” he tries.

“Oh, no. Thanks.”

He gives her a bemused look, out of options. “Right. Um.”

“Were you writing?”

Mostly he was loading paper into the typewriter, but he grasps the lifeline like the drowning man he is. “Uh, yeah.”

“More _GLOW_?”

“Yeah, I had an idea for an opposites day thing.” She looks perplexed. “You know, like, a - a villains-become-the-heroes? Just for a week. Change things up a little.”

Her mouth twitches up at the corners. “Give the bad guys a happy ending?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Too mushy.”

“I didn’t say that.” She goes to look at his scrappy notes and cartoons. “Hmm. Hard to think of a situation where Zoya can be _good_.”

“Maybe the family cherry orchard gets to make a come-back.”

He narrows his eyes. In the back pocket of her jeans is, indeed, her toothbrush. She didn’t fix her hair or put on make-up: she really _did_ go back to her room to collect a toothbrush. It’s fucking _weird_. And even weirder is that he finds it strangely endearing.

“Ha, you see, I _knew_ that was solid… What?” She’s all wrong-footed by his smile.

“Oh, nothing. Talk me through the thing with the fucking trees again, then.”

“Well, it’s a Chekov pastiche—”

“I know that much. I’m not a complete idiot.”

“It doesn’t exactly fit with what we know about Zoya now, but I guess if it’s a one-off episode it doesn’t need to tie into the wider canon...” He blinks at that, but she’s apparently entirely serious. For some minutes she outlines her idea, even picking up his pencil and sketching her own panels of storyboard. Eventually she looks back up at him. “Well?” she says, breathless in her enthusiasm. “What do you think?”

“Honestly? It’s a little complicated.”

Her face falls. “Really?”

“Yeah, but- but the central premise is solid. Why bring in all the extra characters?” Standing next to her now, he moves her storyboard panels. “Just have these two. Zoya and the Woodswoman. Make it personal. You can carry it.”

“You’re just saying that to be… nice,” she hazards, mouth a worried line. 

He raises his eyebrows. “Have you _met_ me?”

That twitch of a smile again as she looks away, nose wrinkling. She’s like a piece of art, he thinks. The good shit that makes you think; makes you feel all discomforted inside. The kind you have to turn over and over in the mind, until the pieces finally fit and you understand just what in the hell the artist was thinking. And he’s been with beautiful women before, ones that were stunning in the real take-your-brains-away sense. He’s been a fucking idiot, crazy for them right up to the point where they and half of his money walked out through the door. But Ruth is different. He’s not half-lobotomised; he feels more awake than he has in _years_.

“What?” she says, touching a hand self-consciously to her hair, breaking the spell.

He shakes his head. “I don’t fucking know.”

“What does _that_ —? Mmph—”

His mouth on hers, stopping the question. Stopping himself from saying something stupid. He’s not sure how long they spend kissing. Days possibly. He slides his glasses off, taking her face in his hands.  

“On the bed,” she gasps, eventually.

“What?”

A shove to send him in the right direction. He has a hazy idea he’s just not picking up on some secret wrestler code about where she wants him to move, necessitating direct action. Or maybe she just likes making him do what she wants. He’s not complaining.

She unbuttons his shirt in a hurry, stopping only to let him pull her sweater over her head. To his surprise she’s naked underneath this time. He wants to touch, but she’s having none of it, pushing him down onto the mattress. Best not to question why he finds it so arousing. “Oh, fuck.”

She unzips his jeans in response. “Uh-huh.”

And now she’s pinned him, arms behind his head. “There’s – ah—condoms in the drawer.” He can’t pull out if she’s on top.

“I’m on the pill.” 

“Oh, right. Good—”

She kisses him quiet, which is probably just as well. Her body just brushing against his until he’s straining to touch her. But she sits up out of reach when he bucks his hips; redoubles her grip on his wrists when he tries to move his hands. This is on her terms. He gets it.

Her eyes flutter closed as she moves against him, enjoying him. Maddeningly close to where he wants her, never quite there. He thinks he says her name, with maybe a ragged please thrown in for good measure, but he can’t be sure. All he knows is suddenly she’s nodding, letting go of his hands, and then she’s all around him. His fingers dig into her hips; pushing her down further onto his cock, making her gasp.

He’s not going to last very long. They’re not building a rhythm together; she’s riding him hard and fast in search of her own release. Not caring about keeping herself quiet, but then neither is he.

“I think I’m gonna—” he gasps out, and then he does, shudderingly long. Her fingers twist in his hair, almost painful, and from the sound of it so does she.

She lies against him in the buzzing aftermath; breathing hard in time with him. He can feel her heartbeat ticking against his ribs. She lifts her head, eventually, and he squints down his nose at her. The words he should say are trapped somewhere in his chest, under a heavy weight of need and fear. He keeps his mouth shut, but wraps his arms around her tightly, holding her close.

 _Don’t go_.

She smiles, her head dropping back onto his shoulder. Hums a sigh, relaxing into him. He hopes it means _I won’t_.


End file.
